


Draw Your Lines

by trufflemores_Glee_fic



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, permanent hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 17:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11628288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores_Glee_fic/pseuds/trufflemores_Glee_fic
Summary: Read-at-your-own-risk, an unfinished "Blaine has a brain tumor" fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody! After receiving multiple requests to repost my old Glee fics, I have created a second AO3 account to do so. I hope you can forgive me for flooding the Glee pages over the next few days. 
> 
> I also ask for kindness regarding the quality of these fics. Over on my main AO3 account (trufflemores), I have written over 150 Flash fics; end result, my current work is of a higher quality than these older pieces. But I know how beloved old fics can be, and I respect that something I consider sub-par can be someone else's favorite. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this fic and any others you choose to read. If you choose to do so, I would also be happy to have you on board 'The Flash' bandwagon as well.
> 
> Kick back, relax, and enjoy. You have been one of the greatest audiences I have ever had.
> 
> Affectionately yours,  
> trufflemores

Blaine refuses to say it aloud, but the back corner in the choir room quickly becomes his corner.

It's not an addiction. He knows that he could quit at any time and that the subsequent sleepiness tends to drain his motivation for the rest of the day, discouraging him from using it all the time.

But that doesn't mean that he avoids it.

Because for those few minutes? It's magical.

It's different. Some might even call it alarming. It's like falling asleep without the inconvenience of tossing and turning in bed for hours. One moment he's awake, the next he concedes defeat to . . . what, he doesn't know, but it's wonderful.

"Blaine!"

And then it's over.

He doesn't know what will happen when he slips under, but it always seems preferable to the taxing reality of participating in Glee club. His resentment builds every time that someone startles him awake. First, it's Kitty clapping loudly in his face; then Jake almost kicking his chair over with his foot ("Dude, you were completely out of it"); and finally, Mr. Schuester giving him a gentle shake with a hand.

"Practice is over, Blaine. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine," he assures, using his best smile to confirm his wellness as he rises from his chair. Even so, the movements feel stilted to him every time that he steps back into the real world.

Once the initial shock of it wore off, he learned that puppet world really was a lot more pleasant than idle thoughts about McKinley. Every time that he's away, all he wants is to be back in puppet world. Puppet world is so much nicer than reality: everyone loves him there and treats him like he's a genuinely useful part of the team. Everyone respects and admires him. Everyone makes him feel good.

"You are so right, Blaine."

"Why didn't I think of that? Thanks so much, Blaine!"

"You're so hard-working, Blaine! We'd never get through this without you!"

Maybe constant validation isn't healthy. Maybe most people don't need it to get through their week, but it feels good and there's no harm in it. Their real life counterparts didn't know about the fantasies.

Besides, dozing off in the choir room has actually made him more likable to the rest of the Glee club. As far as he's concerned, it's a win-win situation. The New Directions are free to maintain their borderline anarchy under Mr. Schuester's leadership, and he's free to indulge in something other than open criticism.

It's certainly better than when he was constantly offering helpful advice for their upcoming Nationals competition. He might have been out of line, but he still knew things. He knew exactly how to rally them together so that they could win the competition, but no one wanted to listen, and it just wasn't fair.

If it endears him more to them, then there's no reason for him to change. Better to be seen as a little eccentric than constantly overbearing -

"What the hell are you doing?" Kurt demands -- real-Kurt -- and Blaine blinks, surprised, as Kurt storms into the room, one hand waving Kurt-Puppet carelessly.

"Be careful with him," Blaine says, holding up a hand to stop Kurt from tossing the puppet around. "Hey, c'mon," he insists, getting out of his chair as real-Kurt keeps waving Kurt-Puppet. "You can't just toss him around like that."

"Why is it a him?" real-Kurt asks, tossing the puppet at Blaine's feet. "What are you even doing? This is cheating, Blaine."

Blaine freezes, one hand already reaching for Kurt-Puppet on the floor before he looks up.

"He's lying," Kurt-Puppet retorts, becoming more animated as real-Kurt glowers down at him. "It's not cheating if it's with your own fiancé." Leaning against Blaine's shoulder in an exaggerated swoon, he adds, "Aren't you supposed to protect me? You're so strong and handsome and good."

"Oh, please," real-Kurt scoffs, waving a hand. "You can't be serious. It's not even real, it's felt."

"I'm not real?" Kurt-Puppet demands in a high, strangled tone, affront bleeding through every word. "I'm more real than you'll ever be because you're. Not. Here."

"Stop it!" Blaine orders, but Kurt-Puppet is ignoring him and advancing on real-Kurt with a sort of vindictive solidity, one hand gesticulating wildly as he speaks.

"You think you can just come back and win him over? He doesn't need you. You broke up with him. You refused to return his phone calls and flowers and cards, you were the one that insisted on staying away when--"

"Stop it," Blaine repeats, low, serious, as real-Kurt looks at him in utter disbelief, shaking his head slowly and vanishing. "Kurt!" he calls, even as Kurt-Puppet slouches, lacking triumph as he turns back to Blaine.

"I'm sorry," Kurt-Puppet says, but Blaine brushes him aside, a wisp of smoke, and he's alone in the choir room once more, head in his hands.

* * *

When his chin hits his chest, Blaine jerks awake, looking around himself and realizing with a twisted knot growing in his chest that he truly is alone in the choir room. It was my fault, I cheated on him, he thinks, reaching blindly for his bag and slinging it over one shoulder. He looks around the room and belatedly realizes that Tuesdays and Thursdays are his nights to clean it; with only a moment's hesitation he writes a quick apology on one of the post-its and departs, leaving the empty room behind him.

The hallways of McKinley are eerily quiet as Blaine treads down them, not daring to provoke anyone or anything. He doesn't know what he's so afraid of until a gleeful voice shouts, "Hi, Blaine!" and accompanied by an equally exuberant felt body that almost tackles him.

"Don't -- don't do that," he stammers, heart pounding, as Cooper-Puppet laughs, retreating so that he's bobbing along at Blaine's side properly. Blaine already has trust issues with McKinley after hours thanks to Kurt's unpleasant recollections, but he really doesn't trust puppets in the form of his older brother. Letting his wariness pass as Cooper-Puppet rambles on, oblivious to his dismay, he walks quickly toward his locker. The conversation is almost refreshing against the silence, even if it remains largely one-sided.

"C'mon, Blainey, I was just kidding! Why the long face? Are you and Kurt fighting again?"

Blaine comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the hallway, not saying anything for a moment before shaking his head briskly. "No. No. We're just ... having a disagreement, that's all."

"You're having a disagreement over a puppet," Cooper-Puppet corrects.

Blaine scowls. "It's not just a puppet," he insists. "You're a puppet."

Cooper-Puppet withdraws, hurt, before sidling closer so he can put a velvety hand on Blaine's shoulder. "Blainey," he begins.

Blaine shrugs him off. "Leave me alone, Coop. I don't want to talk about it."

"If you can't talk to me, then how do you expect to talk to him about it?" Cooper-Puppet retorts.

Blaine opens his mouth to argue, wandering in a slow circle around the empty hall, vaguely aware in some portion of his mind that Cooper-Puppet isn't real. He can't be real. Try though he might to will him away, Cooper-Puppet remains inexplicably present and glaring at him sternly, refusing to be discarded so easily.

With a frustrated sigh, Blaine slumps against the lockers, sinking down to the floor as he does so. Cooper-Puppet settles across from him, hands folded in mid-air; Blaine pictures him sitting cross-legged, shaking his head to clear the thought as Cooper-Puppet speaks.

"If you miss him so much," Cooper-Puppet begins, "then maybe you need a better coping strategy. Obviously Skyping every night isn't enough."

"We don't Skype every night," Blaine corrects because sometimes they miss it and it hurts, it hurts more than Blaine wants to say, but he doesn't because he can't, Kurt and he have resolved to make this work and neither wants to be the first to admit that they're uncomfortable but -- "Oh," he breathes.

Cooper-Puppet nods once sagely. "I'm not asking you to make a life-altering adjustment," he says, "but it seems to me like ignoring your problems isn't making them go away."

"I can't actually force the Glee club members to like me more," Blaine reminds him, some of the bitterness rising back to the surface at the thought. They hate him -- hate him -- and it's such a strong word but it's true sometimes. Between the eye rolling and guffawing and constant dismissal, he can't help but feel like they'd be better off without him. Like if he just melted into the puppet world entirely, no one would even notice that he'd left his chair.

He isn't far off. Holding his fingertips against his temples, he asks, "What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should talk to Kurt," Cooper-Puppet says, resting a hand on Blaine's shoulder soothingly. "If you miss him this much, then I'm sure he misses you, too."

"And if he doesn't?" Blaine asks. The words make his heart ache, but he can't deny the possibility. Kurt thrived last year in New York, staying strong long after Blaine crumbled to pieces. The idea that maybe Kurt is struggling with the distance still is difficult to wrap his head around; every instinct that he possesses screams that Kurt really is adjusting fine without him.

"He's your fiancé," Cooper-Puppet insists. "Of course he does."

And that's all he needs to hear, really, because it's true. Blaine can picture Kurt's face, then, his eyes brimming with delighted tears as he chokes out a simple, "Yeah. Yeah."

It's the most beautiful declaration Blaine's ever heard, and every conviction that he's ever had about the rightness of his and Kurt's relationship was affirmed in that moment.

If he's missing Kurt, then Kurt's missing him. Kurt is such a fundamental part of his being that, he knows, he can't be the only one. He can't be alone.

"Thanks, Coop," he tells Cooper-Puppet even as the empty hallway answers him, hauling himself to his feet and struggling to ignore the mounting headache forming behind his eyes.

* * *

It's easy to ignore it on the drive back to his house, his thoughts already distracted. He almost crashes into a stop sign when Sam-Puppet pops out of nowhere in the passenger's seat, chewing noisily on a wad of gum. "Hey, you got any more?" Sam-Puppet asks, even as Blaine digs one-handed into the glove department and tosses him a pack, heart still racing from the unexpectedness of his arrival. "Thanks," Sam-Puppet says, vanishing without another word as Blaine breathes out slowly and keeps driving.

Gratefully pulling into his driveway five minutes later, he barely remembers to put the car in park before wrestling out of his seat belt and stumbling out of the car. "Everything okay?" Marley-Puppet asks as he pries open the door, ignoring her.

"You're looking kind of green," Artie-Puppet observes, wheeling alongside him towards the stairs. He hears his mother call out a greeting, her voice only one among many clamoring at the back of his mind. Feeling dizzied and overwhelmed, he makes it to the stairs before he calls out that he's sick and scales them, leaving a disgruntled Artie-Puppet behind him.

He almost loses his white-knuckled grip on the railing when he reaches the summit and finds Artie-Puppet already there, gently pushing him out of the way and hurrying off to his room. Marley-Puppet tries to intercept him once more, Jake-Puppet joining her and Tina-Puppet in the hallway before he slams the door on all three of them. Holding it shut and squeezing his eyes closed as he hears a familiar, worried, "Blainey-days? Are you all right?" he staggers away from the door and sinks down onto his bed instead, prying off his shoes and tugging the comforter over his head.

"Talk to him," Cooper-Puppet insists, somewhere far away -- underwater, maybe. Blaine feels like he's drowning, sleep resembling a heavy, overbearing fog that pulls him unrelentingly under.

* * *

When he awakes, tangled in his sheets with his mother's worried face above him, one of her palms retreating from his forehead, the puppets are gone. He licks his lips, mouth cottony and head full of it, before asking in a raspy tone, "Where are they?"

"Where's who?" his mother asks, brushing his hair off his forehead.

Fixing lazy eyes on her and containing a flinch when she resolves briefly into a puppet version of herself, he shakes his head and presses his face against the pillow instead, retreating back into dreamless, mindless sleep.

* * *

When he wakes a second time, his stomach is growling. Making his way shakily out of bed, he relieves himself and takes a moment to freshen up, noticing the darker shadows under his eyes, a frown pursing his lips at the sight.

"You can't keep going on like this," Kurt-Puppet whispers, materializing in the mirror beside him. "You need to talk to him. Or someone."

Blaine closes his eyes, not responding at first. "I can't keep listening to you," he says, opening them, and Kurt-Puppet is gone. Letting his shoulders slump in relief, he reaches for his toothbrush, almost jumping out of his skin when Kurt-Puppet says, "I know, but you can take a word of advice from me."

Swallowing back his unease, Blaine stumbles out of the bathroom, knotting a bow tie shakily into place before checking the time. 6:52 PM. Frowning at it, he picks his phone out of his pocket, holding it to his ear and pursing his lips as it rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Finally, out of breath, Kurt responds, "Hey," and Blaine smiles in spite of himself, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he replies.

"Hey," he says softly. "I just really needed to hear your voice." And not Kurt-Puppet's, he doesn't say, because he loves Kurt-Puppet. He does. He loves all his puppets, and they love him, but.

He didn't get engaged to Kurt-Puppet, he got engaged to Kurt, and the sort of breathless way Kurt says, "Oh," makes any potential awkwardness about calling him for no reason at all dissipate. "Hi, Blaine." A pause, then: "Are you going to apologize again for missing the performance? Because you really don't have to."

"No, no," Blaine assures, anything to please Kurt. "No, I just--" He waves a hand, grasping at words. "I just really wanted to hear your voice," he says again.

"It's good to hear yours again, too," Kurt admits, lush, real, and Blaine wonders how he could ever possibly want to replace him. "Except I hate to pull this card but my break ends in five minutes. I'll call you back soon?"

"Sure!" Blaine says, too eager, quick to hide his disappointment as he adds, "That's fine, Kurt. I love you."

"Love you, too," Kurt says, hanging up.

A single forlorn knock comes at the door, followed by a soft, "Blaine?" Without thinking, Blaine rises to answer it, smiling weakly at Kurt-Puppet as he lets him inside. "I know this is hard," Kurt-Puppet says, idling after him and settling on the bed beside him. "But, really, we're gonna get through this." He rests a hand over Blaine's and, even though it isn't real, Blaine can almost feel the warmth from it, can almost picture real-Kurt shuffling closer to press a kiss to his cheek, carding his fingers through his hair.

When he nods and puts Kurt-Puppet aside, reaching up to rub the sleepiness from his eyes, he tucks the puppet carefully back into the box with the others, not wanting to disturb any of them from their own sleep. Padding out of his room and downstairs, he finds leftover Thai on the table, a note from his parents letting him know that they'll be back in a few hours.

Picking over the food, he sends Tina an absentminded text as he gulps down another mouthful of noodles, asking, What did I miss?

Tina's response is slow to come, confused. What do you mean?

I missed Glee club practice, Blaine reminds her, repressing his annoyance that his presence really did go completely unnoticed. What did Mr. Schue have you do?

Not much, Tina responds, several minutes later, and Blaine lets out a heavy sigh at the non-forthcoming explanation about their lesson for the week. He's barely been present enough to notice one Glee rehearsal from the next; lessons for the week just lack their usual luster. Looking down at his phone when it buzzes a second time, he can't help but soften a little at the, Are you okay?

I'm fine, he replies, setting his phone aside and glancing at the time.

And maybe it's silly, or maybe it's just a product of his boredom, but he feels better when he pulls Kurt-Puppet back out of the box and sets him up carefully beside him on the bed, shuffling through his Netflix account and letting his grip on reality loosen.

And if Kurt-Puppet's acerbic comments about Project Runway are a little too spot-on for comfort, Blaine doesn't say anything about them, laughing along with the worst and gratefully descending into a sort of peaceful madness.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dude!"

Blaine startles awake as Sam snaps his fingers in his face, sitting up straight in his chair and blinking in surprise. "What's going on?" he asks, reaching up to rub at his face.

"You slept through rehearsal. Again." Sam has his arms folded, his expression one of genuine disappointment as he adds, "Do you even care about nationals anymore?"

"What?" Blaine's mouth feels fuzzy, his thoughts heavy with disbelief as he looks up at Sam. "Of course I do."

"Well, you're not really acting like it," Sam says. "This is nationals, Blaine," he insists, tapping a fist against his free hand emphatically as he paces. "And while I totally get that you have some great ideas that could help us win, you can't turn into a Rachel about it."

Blaine blinks, dumbfounded. "A Rachel?"

"You can't throw a hissy fit," Sam elaborates, dragging the piano bench over so he can sit across from him. "It's not cool. We need everyone to be in this. We need to be a team."

Blaine opens his mouth to insist that he is part of the team. He wants to win nationals. In the end, he closes his mouth without saying anything. He knows that Sam is right; dozing off during the middle of their rehearsal is counterproductive. They can't win if the whole team doesn't pull its weight. He knows that, but admitting it is harder, especially when his initial ideas were shot down so quickly.

"Okay," he says, and then, gaining momentum, nods as he says, "all right. I'm in."

"Good," Sam replies, squeezing his knee once, an odd expression on his face. "And I'm sorry for yelling at you, but we need you, Blaine. We can't do this without everyone, and that includes you. Even when you are throwing a bitch fit."

"I'm not throwing a bitch fit," Blaine grumbles, half-wondering if he still is. He hasn't abandoned his corner, after all, and he knows that it induces exactly what Sam's propositioning that he avoid: an exit from reality, a pleasant distraction from the hard truths.

Because, with the exception of that time when real Kurt intruded, the daydreams have been nothing but pleasant. They sing, they dance, and they choreograph together: Nationals couldn't be a lesser concern on Blaine's mind in puppet world because they all know that what they're doing is going to help them win. It doesn't matter that it's not specifically geared towards a weekly lesson or an upcoming holiday. Performing is fun for its own sake, and Blaine isn't about to turn it down when the alternative is halfhearted compliance at best and open defiance at worst.

"Hey," Sam says, giving his knee a bit of a shake and drawing him back to the present. "Stop zoning out on me. We need you."

You don't need me, Blaine thinks, they do.

But he nods all the same, putting on a reassuring smile as he says, "I'll . . . be more attentive. Next time."

Sam still looks skeptical, but all he says is, "Good," as he gets to his feet. "Don't forget; study session tomorrow night, eight o'clock, Tina's house."

Blaine doesn't even remember being told about any study sessions, nodding along even as panic tightens in his throat. Fishing his phone out of his pocket and checking it for new messages, he forces himself not to flinch from the sixty-three new messages crowding his inbox, nine voice mails anxiously awaiting his response.

Sam is already gone, leaving him alone in the choir room as he scrolls methodically through the messages and answers the most urgent ones. Two are from Kurt: We got another gig! -- and then Call me later? Those are easy to handle. Tina's nineteen inquiries about after school plans coincide with as many complaints about his lack of responsiveness. He saves the dates and times and deletes the rest en masse, working his way through the remaining texts as quickly as he can as he slings his bag over his shoulder, padding out of the choir room.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Blaine almost drops his bag in surprise, fumbling for his phone as he whirls with a stuttered, "C-Coach!" already on his lips before he freezes.

"Cheerios' practice started twenty minutes ago!" she barks, her flat mouth equally terrifying in puppet-form. "Where the hell were you?"

"I was just -- I'm--" Blaine makes a helpless gesture over his shoulder as though he can somehow mislead her that way. "I'm on my way."

"Get moving!" Coach Sue-Puppet orders.

Blaine needs no further encouragement, almost running headlong into Kitty in the locker room. "Watch where you're going, hobbit," she snaps, tossing her ponytail at him as she joins the rest of the Cheerios pouring out onto the field.

Scrambling to get into his uniform, Blaine almost rips his shirt off in his haste to get it over his head, grateful that he's already wearing the right undergarments as he pulls on his Cheerios' pants and shirt, hustling out to join them on the field. Thankfully, Coach Sue is feeling in a particularly vindictive mood as she blows her whistle, the rest of the Cheerios mobilizing as a single unit and jogging around the track.

Blaine spares her a glance as he hurries to join them, grateful for the excuse not to talk to anyone.

It isn't that he really likes being a Cheerio, especially with the amount of verbal and physical abuse endured, but . . . he does. Much like the Sue 90x routine (which he still, admittedly, does, mostly because Kurt -- being Kurt -- didn't believe he could actually bend in half until Blaine proved him wrong and realized that ulterior motives were definitely involved), Cheerios' practices are refreshingly uncomplicated.

Listen to Coach Sue's orders, follow them, and don't get killed. Simple as that.

Of course, flexibility, endurance, and sheer blind determination to comply with said-orders is key, but the girls all want the scholarships and he wants the satisfaction. It works for them. It works for him.

You can do this, he tells himself, a little dizzy from the run as Coach Sue finally blows her whistle. Come on. It hasn't been that long.

He forces himself not to bring up the fact that he hasn't stretched yet and his calves are aching as he falls into formation instead. "Five, six, seven, eight!" Coach Sue belts, and Blaine looks over and almost trips over his own feet when Becky-Puppet hurries over to her side. "What do you want?" Coach Sue-Puppet snaps, and Blaine has to blink twice before the real images rule out the false ones, breathing hard.

Of course, in the intervening time he's already missed a step, grunting when one of the Cheerios whirls into him, knocking them both over. Blowing her whistle hard, Coach Sue halts the exercise as she bellows, "Anderson!"

Blaine doesn't get up at once, even knowing that it will incur even more wrath in the end. Even the scalding humiliation of missing a step so obviously isn't enough to get him moving again. What does make him jerk upright is a second "Anderson!" in a noticeably higher pitch, as he climbs to his feet and reports to Coach Sue-Puppet promptly.

"What's wrong with you? You're not focused; you're not even remotely on track -- it's like you don't even care anymore!"

"Of course I care," Blaine mutters, because he does, and the implication that he doesn't hurts. He's put in so many hours that he can't fathom not caring; countless hours spent after school working on various projects for various clubs, logging more time both on and behind the scenes than any other student. Of course he cares.

"You showed up fifteen minutes late!"

It doesn't occur to Blaine to retort that she couldn't have known -- Coach Sue has eyes in the back of her head -- as he says, "I lost track of time."

"Lost track of time? How did you lose track of time?"

Blaine opens his mouth to retort, swung by a sudden surge of vertigo that almost brings him to his knees.

"Being a Cheerio is not a game," Coach Sue-Puppet is saying as the lines blur and her normal terrifying demeanor replaces her slightly less terrifying counterpart. "We don't have time for slackers. So either get moving or get off the team."

Blaine nods before retreating back to the thick of the squad, suddenly, disconcertingly uncertain about whether or not any of the conversation was real beyond that point. Of course it was, he thinks even as he listens to the next round of orders and takes special care to obey.

He's aching by the end of it, exhausted to his core as he stumbles back into the locker room, gratefully stripping under one of the shower heads and setting his clothes aside. Letting the hot water scald his back feels good; scrubbing off the hard exertion of sweat, grime, and grass feels even better.

"She works you way too hard."

Kurt-Puppet is leaning against the shower wall, arms folded contemplatively, and Blaine lets out a slow sigh as he turns away from him, shaking his head.

"Go away, Kurt-Puppet," he says, too tired to deal with any more questionable sightings. It's probably his own fatigue cooking up the unusual prevalence, he decides, as he rinses his hair out.

"You can't keep letting her do this to you, Blaine," Kurt-Puppet insists. "You need to stick up for yourself."

"I do stick up for myself," Blaine reminds him, turning to face him.

"You don't do it enough," Kurt-Puppet says seriously. "If you want anyone to listen, then you have to stand your ground. You can't just let them walk all over you."

Pursing his lips at that, Blaine turns back to the shower head and says to the wall, "Do we really need to have this conversation now?"

He can almost hear Kurt-Puppet retreat in on himself, a soft, "She works you way too hard," echoing after him as he leaves.

Blaine nods slowly to the wall, not saying anything as he shuts off the faucet and focuses on getting dressed instead.

I know, he thinks, not saying anything. It's not like anyone would care, either way.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, Pamela Lansbury booked its next gig," Kurt begins, excitement evident in his tone. Blaine can almost hear him idling around the lounge, one hand toying with a glass and a bottle while the other holds his phone to his ear. Keeping his own eyes closed as he leans back against the bleachers, he can picture his movements easily, a small smile quirking his lips in spite of the throbbing behind his eyes. He wasn't expecting Kurt to be so cheerful but, aside from a quick You don't have to apologize, the flowers were enough; although if you're not careful I think Rachel's going to insist on marrying you first, he hasn't shown even a speck of resentment that Blaine couldn't make his first gig. Sure, he was upset, and he wasn't afraid to say that, but it clear isn't the issue anymore as he adds, "I know we didn't get to talk about it much before, but it's at the -- wait for it -- Williamsburg Music Hall."

"The one in Brooklyn?" Blaine asks, incredulity coloring his tone as he blinks up at the overcast sky, trying to picture Kurt and his band performing at such a big venue so soon.

"Yes, the one in Brooklyn," Kurt says, a little wounded but still overall clearly delighted as he pops the lid on his drink. "Where else? We're scheduled to perform next Thursday."

"That's amazing," Blaine says.

Kurt's ruffled feathers ease considerably at that, an easy laugh escaping him as he says, "Isn't it? I couldn't believe that our one patron turned out to be the grandfather of the owner. He agreed to plug our name in at a couple other places, but we haven't heard back from any of them yet." Filling his glass, Kurt adds, "What's your schedule like? Do you think you can make it?"

Blaine only hesitates a moment before assuring, "Kurt, I wouldn't miss it." He knows that he'll have to pull a few strings -- student council is winding up for the year, and the demands are already staggering to pave the new way for the next year (and ensure that Glee club isn't excluded from the benefits) -- but to see Kurt perform on a stage in front of hundreds of people for the first time? He wouldn't miss it.

His gut twists at the reminder that he already missed his first opportunity. At least their one audience member was appreciative, he reminds himself. It would be different this time; he knew it would. And he would make sure that he was there. He wouldn't let Kurt down again.

"So, are you planning anything special this week?" Kurt asks, changing the topic.

Blaine sighs, and Kurt responds with a simple, "That bad?"

"No, it's just -- end-of-the-year," he says, as though it explains all.

Judging by the affirmative noise that Kurt makes, he understands. "Well, you made it through prom," he teases, and Blaine lets a rueful smile cross his lips in spite of himself. "And you avoided getting slushied in front of hundreds of students," he adds.

Blaine's expression sobers at the reminder. Sometimes it's easy to forget that their one-time glory as national champions existed; its evaporation was so abrupt that Blaine wonders if he didn't just imagine it.

"How is Tina?" Kurt asks, and Blaine can't help but notice the slightly defensive note in his voice.

Ever since the Vapor Rub Incident, Kurt and Tina have walked a fine line in amicability. While Tina maintains that Kurt and he weren't actually together at the time, she hasn't refrained from apologizing to Blaine several times since. He knows that she meant well and he takes it in that light, brushing off the apologies and assuring that they're still friends, regardless of misunderstandings. Kurt, however, hasn't benefited from the same treatment: Tina doesn't seem to think it's necessary to apologize to him aside from indirect references to a certain phase where she might have overstepped a line, a fact that Blaine knows bristles Kurt's pride like nothing else.

"She's fine," Blaine says at last, selecting the most innocuous response possible, and Kurt relaxes.

"You're not still having trouble with the rest of the New Directions, are you?" Kurt asks, and Blaine can almost see him reclining against a couch, his body curving into it as the couch releases a gentle whoosh of air. With a longing that almost overwhelms him, he has to shake his head to remember Kurt's question. The pounding behind his temple reignites with a vengeance, and he lifts a hand to press against it even as he speaks.

"The New Directions are the New Directions," he says. He accepted the crime of coming across too strong and apologized; ever since, they've been back on agreeable terms. "At least we're working on a set list for nationals now."

Kurt nods, a brief pause before he adds, "That's good." Tilting his head away from the phone to speak to someone unseen, he points out, "Rachel's home. She says hi."

"Hi, Rachel," Blaine echoes reflexively, smiling a little as he hears her call back over the phone, "We miss you!"

"It's only been two weeks," Blaine notes, amused.

"Well, you did bring a piano last time," Kurt points out, and Blaine laughs.

He didn't mean to bring it. In fact, he wanted to be subtle with his first real housewarming gift: maybe candles or dish towels or cookies, something domestic and nice but not overly expensive. It wasn't until he mentioned the idea that his mom threw out the idea of the piano. It was older -- a little worn around the edges, well-loved -- but it came from her studio and she didn't mind giving it to him. With some tuning and a little more love, he'd brought it back to good condition and, after much persuasion, convinced Sam to bring it to New York with them.

It was a nightmare getting up the stairs -- he somehow forgot that Kurt lived on the fourth floor -- but thankfully, once it was settled in, they loved it. Even Santana, notoriously difficult to buy for and hypercritical of any attempt at 'winning over' that could be made, seemed pleased with the newest contribution. It didn't hurt that Sam helped him move it in, either, even if they had almost dropped it three floors up, Kurt warning them to be careful the entire way while Rachel gleefully explained all the reasons why they had needed a piano and how much fun they would have with it.

"Dani wants to meet you," Kurt adds.

Blaine frowns, confused. "But I've already met Dani?" he says, blinking up at the sky when he feels a couple raindrops land on his jeans. The bright red keeps the worst at bay, and it doesn't look like more is coming, but he keeps one hand on his satchel, ready to move if need be. "Unless that wasn't actually Dani?"

"No, no, that was Dani," Kurt assures, and Blaine can hear several voices in the background, now: Rachel and Santana, maybe. "She wants to take you out for a drink sometime," he explains. "She feels like it's not official yet. We went out for celebratory drinks the other night and she could not stop talking about it. 'You should bring your boyfriend, Kurt!' 'He is not my boyfriend, he's my fiancÃ©.'"

Just the way Kurt says it makes Blaine's heart skip a beat, a smile curving his lips as he shuffles his feet on the bench. "Well," he hedges, not wanting to agree when he still doesn't know how many commitments he'll be putting on hold as a result, "we only have six more weeks until summer. And we still have ring-shopping to do. . . ."

The mere prospect of shopping with Kurt for a matching ring is enough to boost his mood considerably, the headache forgotten as Kurt immediately dives into an explanation about several of the local ring shops that he's already been perusing that are well within their budget and strong contenders. The beautiful thing about New York is that they can ring-shop together without attracting unwanted side-eyes or awkward questions about 'What's she like?' Kurt's already browsed on his own, but he wants Blaine to be there, too, and Blaine suspects that it isn't just about his opinion, but also the public finality of it.

This is my fiancé.

Blaine certainly wants to tell everyone he meets about Kurt; it doesn't surprise him that Kurt feels the same way.

Opening his mouth to respond, Blaine closes it as a stab of pain slices through his thoughts, momentarily unseating him in the conversation. He comes back to the present as Kurt says, "So, you'll keep me posted when you can come in?"

"Of course," Blaine agrees, grateful that his voice is level.

"Good," Kurt replies. Blaine can hear the smile in his voice and it makes the throbbing behind his eyes a little easier to bear as he adds, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Blaine manages, hanging up before Kurt can ask about the tightness in his voice and dropping his head into his hands, kneading at his temples with his fingertips.

He's gotten headaches before -- everyone has -- but the sharpness of this one makes the tiny, almost wholly irrelevant pattering of the rain piercing. Groaning softly in discomfort, he hunches inward a little before forcing himself to take a deep breath and sitting up, gathering his satchel more firmly over his shoulder and climbing carefully down the bleachers.

Without Kurt to distract him, his head aches with a vengeance, and he stumbles over the final step, almost knocking his shoulder against the bleachers themselves. He'd thought -- hoped -- that spending some time outdoors might curb the worst of it, but it seems to be having the opposite effect, exacerbating the pain rather than reducing it.

Hurrying back to the school as the rain begins to drizzle, he steps under the fluorescent light and almost comes to his knees, momentarily blinded.

Stumbling a little, he fumbles the door to the nearest classroom and lets himself inside the dark classroom, shutting the door behind him and twisting the lock. He knows that students aren't supposed to monopolize these spaces, especially after hours, but he can't help it, finding the nearest desk and dropping his bag onto a chair. Sliding into a different seat and resting his head in his hands, he sits in the dark and waits for the pain to subside, his fingers curled against the sides of his head tightly.

You're just stressed, he chastises himself. Stop stressing so much.

"Blainey days?"

When he hears Tina-Puppet's voice, he blinks, lifting his head and looking at Tina-Puppet and Jake-Puppet sitting at a table across from him and offering a weak smile.

"What's going on?" Jake-Puppet asks, sidling over to him and sitting next to him.

"Nothing," Blaine says, and he's surprised to realize that it's true, reaching up to run a hand over the formerly tender spot on the left side of his head and marveling. "I feel great."

"In that case, we need your help -- think you feel up to it?" Jake-Puppet asks, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

Blaine licks his lips, hesitating -- there was something that he needed to do, but . . . "Okay," he agrees. "What is it?"

"I really don't know what to do about this whole Marley situation," Jake-Puppet begins, and with the startling suddenness of a dream, Marley-Puppet appears in the corner, Blaine's gaze falling on her as she folds her arms and sniffs, nose pointed up and eyes averted. "I just want to make amends, but I feel like I can't do anything right. And I wouldn't ask you to fix this, but I know you're the smartest guy in Glee club and you've dealt with this sort of thing before, so maybe you could help me out?"

Blaine watches Marley-Puppet's movements carefully, unsure how to respond. "You could . . . try singing about it?" he offers, and Jake-Puppet's expression lights up as he looks at Marley-Puppet thoughtfully. "I mean, I know it's not going to fix everything, but . . . sometimes it helps. To get your feelings out there." Then, confidingly, he leans forward and points out, "You were sort of a jerk to her in Glee club."

"I know," Jake-Puppet admits, sad and serious. "I don't even know what I was thinking."

Blaine opens his mouth to say that he doesn't, either, before jerking awake as his elbow slips just so, startling back to the present. It's dark and the rain has intensified to a steady downpour, a soft groan escaping him as he sits up, stretching carefully. His back aches and it takes him a moment to realize that it's well after four thirty, a yelp escaping him as he hurriedly makes his way to his feet and out the door.

Tina is just wrapping up the minutes when he knocks on the door and steps in the room, flushed and apologetic as he settles into the head seat. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time," he says, clearing his throat as he adds, "Thank you, Secretary Cohen-Chang."

Tina eyes him worriedly for a moment and Blaine wonders if his gel came loose in the rain -- God knows he looks like Medusa when it does -- before clearing his throat and announcing, "We have six weeks until graduation, which means--"

Something -- skips, then, some internal wire snaps, because the brief tangle that slips out of his mouth than resembles nothing coherent. Clicking his mouth shut, horrified, he sucks in a slow, measured breath before letting it out and repeating, very carefully, "We have six weeks until graduation. Which means our main focus should be on future reform."

Thankfully, it comes out clearly that time, and as he plows ahead, gaining momentum and confidence and refusing to let anyone comment on the slip up. When no one does, he relaxes into the role, barely conscious of his own presence as they bounce priority ideas back and forth among themselves. The underclassmen respect him in a way that he hasn't seen since Dalton, looking for his authority and visibly distressed without it. Adding to that, Tina and Sam defer to his expertise, preferring the validation of his approval to the alternative.

It takes him half the meeting before he realizes that Sam isn't there, blinking in surprise as he halts mid-speech and asks, "Where's Sam?"

"He's at an interview," Tina answers, side-eyeing him as though she can't believe that he missed that, and it takes him a moment to realize that she's Tina-Puppet once more. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," he insists, glancing at the skeptical and concerned around him before insisting a little more forcefully, "I'm fine. Does anyone have any further suggestions?"

When no one volunteers, he adjourns the meeting, feeling more worn than he has in weeks as he settles back in his chair.

"Let me give you a ride home," Tina says, resting a hand on his shoulder when he refuses to meet her gaze, aware of the piercing white pain that makes him curl his fingers into loose fists.

Blaine considers refusing, not wanting to impose.

"Just because you're the best doesn't mean you can't accept help," Jake-Puppet reminds.

Blaine turns to find him, but he's gone, Tina following his gaze and asking, "Blaine?"

"Sure," he agrees, smiling as best as he can with his temples aching as he gets out of his chair. "Thank you."


	4. Chapter 4

The Warblers were never perfect. There were confrontations and disagreements about song choices and soloists. There were even moments when it seemed like the entire group would dissolve into factions, an idea that was supposedly impossible with the Council in place. Without an arbitrary leader calling the shots, and with Council seats capable of being overturned, everyone was aware of everyone else's power. Older members had seniority, but even newer members could call them out if the forwardness spread to interfering levels.

But the Warblers were a well-rounded, coherent, acapella group. The Warblers had scholarship money and reputations at stake. The Warblers could not exist on a purely individual level, because acapella is, by nature, a group undertaking.

Blaine is beginning to realize that the New Directions are the closest thing to a show-choir anarchy.

He hopes to reach a point of uncaring soon, but even after his resolution not to interfere, he can't help but wince at the disorder as he steps into the choir room.

Jake and Marley are still fighting and therefore not speaking to each other; they sit on opposite sides of the choir room, arms folded and bodies turned away from each other. Tina and Kitty are arguing heatedly about song selections for Nationals, which they were supposed to have decided on two weeks ago but, Blaine decides firmly, are not his concern. Unique is crossing off ideas on the white board, evidently recording the final tallies. Artie has claimed the sole seat beside Brad, engaging in a doubtless one-sided conversation about cinematography. Blaine casts Brad an appreciative look in passing as he claims the nearest seat to the wall vent that he can find. Sam and Ryder haven't made an appearance yet, but he isn't worried; as long as Sam is around, then he doesn't need to call them to order, anyway.

They aren't the Warblers. They don't need his input.

New Directions, he muses, closing his eyes against the headache threatening to split his skull in two.

He's been sick before show choir competitions before. If anything, it's rapidly becoming a habit. He lost his voice six weeks before his first sectionals competition with the Warblers (sending Wes into hysterics for the better part of a week before his voice finally came back enough that he could sing) and succumbed to food poisoning three days before regionals. The bus ride to nationals last year was even more stressful and exhausting than he'd thought it would be, and Mercedes coming down with the flu the day of the competition had put all of them on edge. Thankfully, he'd avoided that pitfall and managed to enjoy the rest of the trip thoroughly; it hadn't hurt that pool time with Kurt was actually a thing, in spite of Kurt's initial protests about the chlorine ruining his hair.

It'll pass, he reminds himself soothingly, even his temples ache. The pain is constant but bearable. As long as he doesn't push himself -- which, he knows, he tends to do around competitions -- then it'll go away and he'll be able to perform and they'll all enjoy the competition more.

He's looking forward to it. In less than four weeks, they'll fly out to LA to compete together for the last time. His shoulders ease even as Tina and Kitty's voices rise, knowing that after nationals there's graduation, and then three short months before Kurt. He might have to put up with stress-induced headaches and New Directions craziness now, but in four short weeks he'll be kicking back in LA, worry-free. Jake has already mentioned meeting up with Puck, and Blaine knows that he won't be able to avoid Cooper, but he's still secretly hoping that Kurt will come out to watch them perform. Plane tickets are expensive, but he's willing to pay for it if Kurt isn't, and he knows that Kurt can get the time off at work if he needs to.

It'll be fun. If nothing else, it'll be the last obstacle that he needs to overcome before graduation.

A tiny smile quirks his lips even as Tina slams down a folder in frustration, Kitty already building up steam for what sounds like an impressive tirade.

"Guys. Guys."

That's Sam, then, Blaine thinks, eyes still closed as he listens to the cacophony quiet a little. Ryder must be on his heels, if the second set of footsteps is anything to go by. He doesn't open his eyes yet, letting Sam take the lead as the New Directions slowly reassemble into a quasi-cohesive group. It takes surprisingly little to reign them under control again: whereas Warbler debates, though far fewer and farther between, might take hours and even days to resolve, the New Directions fractured and came together again surprisingly quickly.

He can hear Sam talking a mile a minute -- and no, that's Sam Puppet, he amends, as he keeps his eyes shut and lets the strange, mythical quality of the choir room consume him.

Except Sam Puppet doesn't refer to Blaine's gayness seven times a minute like he usually does, and he actually sounds a lot like the real Sam, if the higher pitch and faster pace can be ignored.

Blaine opens his eyes lazily to see which Sam appears and isn't surprised that the real Sam is standing at the white board underlining the word Legacy.

"Didn't you do that last year?" Kitty demands in her usual unflinching tone.

"We did," Sam allows, clasping his hands together and setting the marker aside. Blaine closes his eyes as the world tilts ominously for a moment, steadying himself with a hand on the adjacent chair. He can almost feel Tina's gaze on him the moment that he does it, and he wants to open his eyes and smile reassuringly at her, but the last thing he wants is to throw up in front of everyone, which he's almost positive he will if he moves.

"But this year's different," Sam continues, his voice soft but insistent, and even though the line is frayed between real Sam and Sam Puppet, Blaine can still clearly distinguish the gravity of his words. "This year, we're not just doing it for ourselves. We're doing it for Finn."

Silence settles over the choir room. Blaine blinks and focuses enough to stare at Sam, conscious of everyone else doing the same. In that, they are united, at least; not a word in protest is spoken.

Then, quietly: "I'm in."

Echoes of the same sentiment emerge across the room in nods and murmured agreements. Blaine wants to chime in his own support, but the lump in his throat is thickening, his chest tight with the memory of Finn standing in front of them six months ago, encouraging them to take sectionals by storm. He looked so earnest, so alive and infused with his own vitality.

It takes everything he possesses not to break down. He's managed to stay strong so far; even at the funeral, a lovely, heart-wrenching affair, he kept his calm. He isn't going to lose it now, not when everyone has just started to heal, when memorialization is on their minds.

It's okay to cry.

The whisper of Kurt's voice -- real Kurt's or Kurt Puppet's, it's almost impossible to tell in his own head -- almost shatters his resolve. Almost.

He chases the echo away and then follows it into the darkness, gladly escaping from the conversation with his shoulders slouched against his seat and his eyes fixed unseeingly on the piano.

No one seems to notice his inattention. Not in real time, at least; in puppet world, he's the center of it. He can't not be noticed. Still, even they seem subdued, and the combined weight of real and imagined grief is so overpowering that he almost chokes on it, struggling to keep a smile on his face as Tina and Sam anxiously ask him if he's okay.

"I'm fine," he assures, and his voice is level enough that they let it go. Thankfully, no one seems to stay fixated for long in puppet world; along with the rest of the New Directions, they're eager to hear about his plans for spending his time in LA. He's reluctant to steer the conversation away from Finn, feeling as though he's dishonoring him somehow, but at Jake Puppet's insistence, he admits that he is looking forward to it. Latching onto his enthusiasm eagerly, his puppet mob presses him for details, refusing to let him get away with a short answer.

So he tells them about Cooper, leaving out his bad traits and focusing on the good. Cooper and he have been doing their best to mend their relationship, and if their Skype calls are confined to once a month and their physical interactions far fewer, then at least they have reached amicable terms. Blaine doesn't feel self-conscious telling Cooper about his plans at McKinley, and Cooper has never been shy about his burgeoning career. They find common ground and go from there and it works.

It's nice, even if only because it feels like he finally has someone that he can talk to. His parents have always welcomed him to tell them about his grievances, but they can't always understand what it means to be a senior and in show choir and, most importantly, working hard to make things work with his fiancÃ© six hundred miles away. They never did long distance. While Cooper hasn't, either, he's surprisingly sympathetic to the cause, having met and promptly fallen in love with Kurt. Blaine has to remind him at least twice every conversation that Kurt is his fiancÃ©, not Cooper's, even if it is colored with amusement by the degree to which Cooper enjoys Kurt's attention.

"Always remember the fans, Blainey," Cooper tells him with a smile whenever he rolls his eyes and tells him exactly how ridiculous he's being. The best part about their last Skype call was that Kurt was with him, and while it prompted even more comments from Cooper, it still meant that he could actually wrap his arms around Kurt and pretend that nothing else existed in the world for a while.

That had been nice. He smiles even as he reiterates it, falling into silence when he hears the bell ring.

Opening his eyes is a struggle as he pushes himself up in his chair, grabbing his satchel and slinging it over one shoulder. His head swims as he walks, but thankfully no one is around to see it; he can't tell if he's hurt or relieved by that, so he settles for unopposed as he slips out of the choir room and into the noisy halls.

It's nice to be ignored, his fingers fumbling the lock on his locker as he struggles to get the combination right. On the fourth try, he manages it, startling when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Fishing it out, he holds it up to his ear and asks, a little more gruffly than usual, "Yeah?"

"Hey, Stranger," Kurt says, the smile visible in his voice as Blaine struggles not to tell him to be a little quieter. The noise in the hallway is enough to make his teeth grind; he forces a smile on his face even as he fishes through his locker absentmindedly for his books. Calc, French, lunch, he thinks. History, econ, home. If he can survive that, then he'll be fine. He just needs to make it through the day -- and the phone call he's completely zoned out on, he realizes, wincing as Kurt asks, "Blaine?"

"I'm here," he assures, clearing his throat and adding, "I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

"Are you okay?"

Once it's out in the open, it's hard to answer in the affirmative. His head aches. His back is stiff with the pain and the books are blurring a little in front of him even as he stares at the covers. Shaking himself, he musters a surprisingly steady, "I'm fine, just a rough night," to which Kurt makes a sympathetic sound and carries on.

Normally Blaine would be grateful for the reprieve from his own monotonous morning (every day this week it's been a struggle; he's looking forward to the weekend already and it's only Wednesday), but he can't suppress the nausea that arises as he forces himself to stay focused on the conversation. Reaching his limit, he begs off with a quick, "Can I call you back later?" And then, mitigating, he adds, "I have to get to class."

"Of course," Kurt says, surprise in his tone but no hurt, thankfully, as he adds, "I love you."

"Love you, too," Blaine replies softly, ending the call and pressing his hand against his forehead.

For a moment, he can't see straight, the ground reeling underneath him. He half-wonders if he is going to pass out before the white noise recedes and he can recognize the books in front of him again. Reaching out and carefully plucking the ones that he needs before depositing them in his satchel, he tucks his phone in his pocket and shuts his locker behind him, doing his best to shake the uncomfortable feeling settling under his skin, a byproduct of a headache he just can't shake.

Luckily, his calc teacher has never placed a high emphasis on class participation and Blaine is able to put his head down on his arms and drift off until the bell, jerking awake. No puppets today, he thinks, a little sadly, even as the nausea twists his stomach into knots.

Three more classes, he reminds himself, every step an effort as he makes his way to his French classroom. Three more classes.

* * *

"You need to go to the nurse."

Blaine doesn't even realize that he's been dozing off over his lunch, head cradled in his hands, until Tina's voice jerks him awake. Glancing over at her with a vexed expression, he sighs and uses one hand to rub at his eyes instead. His head hurts. Everything hurts. "Isn't that . . . crazy intern still the nurse?" is all he says.

"Her name is Penny and she isn't crazy," Sam interjects. Blaine can almost see the stern frown on his face, but he doesn't have the energy to lift his head, humming a little in affirmation. Even that sets his teeth on edge, and he has to grit them to keep his breakfast down.

"You look like death warmed over," Tina says bluntly, "and crazy or not, she can still give you permission to leave school. Go home."

"She's not crazy," Sam reminds, waving a fork importantly at the edges of Blaine's vision. "She's sweet with a lot of awesome talents and cool aspirations."

"None of which include actual medical practice," Tina retorts.

"Guys," Blaine warns, but Sam is already bull-dozing over his protests and he lets out a slow sigh. Sometimes he forgets why he likes to sit with them, other than the fact that most days his head doesn't feel like it's going to explode.

The prospect of standing is so discouraging that he stays seated, Tina on his right side and Sam directly across from him, until at last Marley appears at his left and rests a hand on his shoulder. "Need a lift?" she asks, her voice still light and teasing enough that Blaine can almost be fooled that she doesn't suspect a thing about his health (excusing the fact that he's almost positive he actually looks as bad as he feels; Kurt at least can pull off the perfect-health visage until complete incapacitation, but Blaine goes down hard at the first set of sniffles). Before he can respond he's being tugged to his feet, and the soft groan that slips past his lips is utterly involuntary and, thankfully, almost inaudible.

Still. The world rocks ominously beneath his feet, each step a struggle as they move away from the crowded cafeteria. "Stop," he whispers, once they're outside the cafeteria, because the last thing he wants is to throw up now, but he's not entirely sure he can hold back if he takes another step.

Thankfully, Marley doesn't challenge him, letting him lean against the lockers and sink to the floor a moment later, head cradled in his hands. "I'm getting the nurse," she replies, voice tight with worry, and he doesn't have the heart to reply, so he just nods faintly and curls in a little tighter on himself, chanting, You're fine, you're fine, you're fine over and over in a vague attempt to wind mind over matter.

The last thing he hears before his world goes completely dark are Tina and Sam's voices, mingling apology and worry as they step out of the cafeteria and promptly stop arguing.


	5. Chapter 5

Kurt feels almost giddy as he unties his apron, his hands shaking with excitement. Just one more day until they get to perform at Williamsburg Music Hall, and if Blaine stays true to his word, then he'll be there to see it. The mere thought of being so close to mainstream exposure makes it almost impossible for Kurt to concentrate on work. All he wants to do is beg off for the rest of the week to prepare, but he knows that Gunther is being generous already with his schedule. No need to antagonize his boss to cope with his own excitement, Kurt reminds himself. They have plenty of time to rehearse between shifts and, besides, the moment will come just as quickly either way.

Best of all, though, he only has three more hours until Blaine flies in. He's already traded a late shift with Rachel so that he can meet Blaine at the airport. And with Santana staying at Dani's for the night, they'll have at least four hours of alone time at the loft.

It's perfect. It might be precious rehearsal time, but he hardly thinks of it as a loss. Besides, if Pamela Lansbury does go mainstream, then they'll more than make up for a few hours missed in the end.

Tying the apron up on the rack and clocking out, Kurt lets out a deep breath of relief as he tugs on his own jacket. Evening shifts may be grueling at times, but at least the wealthier clientele never seems far behind the performers that like to trickle in after six; agreeing to a ten-to-four shift is an even greater test of Kurt's mental stamina to stay focused on the job and not wistful imaginings about his band's future success.

They still haven't performed in front of a large audience. For all he knows, they'll be booed off the stage, scorned by the community and rejected by their peers. It's a devastating possibility, but he struggles to even entertain it, convinced that with Elliot's vocal range, Santana's dexterity, Rachel's Broadway voice, and Dani's own formidable talents, they can't fail. (Not to mention his own fearless leadership and perfectly attuned countertenor, but he already knows that he's a strong asset to the group.)

Humming to himself as he pulls out his phone, he frowns as he turns it on again, surprised that he left it off in the first place. Idling out of the crowded back-of-the-house to the slightly less crowded main floor, he ignores Dani's inquisitive "Where are you going?" and waves a hand dismissively as he exits the diner.

As his phone comes to life, he notices the little phone icon at the bottom of the screen first.

There are fifteen missed calls on his phone. Six are recent, all from his dad.

Kurt feels sick, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth, his stomach plummeting. It's not him, he reminds himself forcefully, borderline hysterical because it can't be, Carole his a phone, she would call him from hers if it was his dad, if it was serious, but it must not be his dad because his dad is the one calling him, so it --

He closes his eyes and for a moment forgets how to breathe. Blaine.

Then he forces himself to open his eyes and sidestep the pedestrians milling around him so he can put his back against solid concrete, because he isn't sure if he can keep his feet underneath him if he doesn't. It's nothing, he tells himself, the white noise in his ears making it almost impossible to process anything other than Dad (6).

The earlier ones seem innocuous -- seven took place before noon, five of them from Rachel and two from Elliot -- but two of the later ones are from Tina, mere minutes before his dad. It doesn't seem like a coincidence, not when Kurt knows that his dad works from eight to five on weekdays and Tina doesn't call him during school unless--

Shakily, he dials his dad's number, holding the phone up to his ear and struggling to remember how to breathe normally. It's nothing, he tells himself, chanting it like it'll somehow make it so. You're overreacting. It's nothing.

But he remembers last time this happened, and it takes everything in him not to break down and sob when his dad's voice finally asks gruffly, "Kiddo?"

"Dad," he says, expelling the word in a breathless gasp, his fingers clutching the phone so tightly that he's afraid he's going to crush it before he can even get the words out. "What happened? Is Blaine okay?"

"He's fine."

Kurt's knees feel weak. The relief aches in his soul, so intense that he can barely breathe. "What happened?" he demands again, somehow even more breathless than before but steadier, less likely to tip over the edge of sanity.

"He passed out at school." Kurt's fingers tense around the phone, but he doesn't say a word as his dad adds, "He's fine. They took him to the ER and they're checking him out now--"

"Where are you?" Kurt asks. He doesn't know where the impulse comes from; he only knows it is right. Somehow his feet are moving, and he's grateful that everyone in New York is always too busy to care about everyone else, because right now he doesn't think he could bear to be noticed. Melding in with the crowds is so much easier; he already knows the route back to the loft by heart. "Are you at the hospital? Is he?"

"His parents are out of town," his dad admits. "I'm in the lobby now. I tried to reach you earlier--"

"I'm so sorry, my phone was off." Kurt's throat threatens to close up on him again as he pauses at the sidewalk's edge as the light turns red, trying to understand how he could have missed this, how he could have possibly lived in such blissful ignorance that he didn't know his fiancé was in the hospital.

His fiancé is in the hospital. The thought alone makes him walk a little faster when the light finally goes green, the apartment so very, terribly far away.

"Tell me more," he demands, and his dad does. He doesn't know much, but he knows enough: Tina called him in a panic and Burt called to try and placate him, and the cumulative effect was more phone calls to stress Kurt out than either wanted. Kurt bites his lip and says nothing. The more his dad talks (and the subsequent less Kurt learns about Blaine's actual condition), the more he feels like he's going to be sick.

"I'm coming home," he blurts, and hangs up before he can second-guess himself. Guilt washes over him a moment later, but he's at the foot of the apartment, now, and he takes the stairs two at a time, shoving the loft door back carelessly.

"You're back early," Rachel says, flipping through a magazine on the couch. There's music playing softly in the background, but Kurt barely hears it, the ringing in his ears loud and obtrusive as he storms across the floor, bee-lining for his bedroom. "Kurt?" Rachel prods, worry lacing her tone as she gets to her feet. Kurt packs a bag even as he hears her turn off the music and pad over to him, leaning against the door and frowning as Kurt grabs a stack of essentials and stuffs it carelessly away. "What are you doing?"

"Blaine's in the hospital." His voice is wavering already and he feels perilously near tears as he adds, "I'm going home."

Rachel doesn't speak, frozen, before stepping forward and asking in a low, worried tone, "What happened, is he--"

"He's fine," Kurt says. Even as he says it, the words feel wrong -- Blaine isn't fine, he's in the hospital, he's in the hospital and Kurt is six hundred miles away, and something isn't right -- but he can't bring himself to say all of that, so he tenses his jaw and heaves his bag over one shoulder. "I'm going to the airport. I'll book a flight on the way."

Rachel doesn't respond, only stepping aside to let him out of the room as he stalks past her.

"What should I do about our gig?" Rachel asks, her voice surprisingly steely. Resolved. Resigned, Kurt amends, as he turns to face her briefly, seeing the pain and mingled concern in her eyes.

"You could come, too," he says softly, and she folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself, visibly torn. He knows that uprooting is hard, even for crises -- airports are disasters and flights are never on time and everything can go wrong -- before at last she lets out a slow breath.

"Someone has to watch the apartment," she reminds.

Kurt nods, accepting the rejection as he steps outside the door and calls back softly, "Don't cancel yet. It might not be serious."

In his heart-of-hearts, he knows, it doesn't matter how serious or not serious it is: he won't be back tomorrow.

Not until he's positive that Blaine is okay.

The door slides shut heavily behind him, leaving Rachel alone in his wake, and a long walk ahead of him.

He takes the first step and fishes out his phone, already calling his dad once more.

"I'm sorry," he says, as he emerges on the street below, aware of the silence on the other end, the patience. "Thank you. For telling me."

"It's okay, Kurt," is all his dad says, and Kurt has to fight to keep the tears at bay, his fingers clinging to his dad's words.

It's okay. It has to be.

He doesn't give his evening plans a second thought as he books the first flight that he can find and takes off for La Guardia airport.

* * *

There are voices in his head. It takes him a moment to recognize the first as Sam's, then Tina's, then someone he doesn't know, startled, alarmed. He tries to tell them that it's too early to be fussing over anything -- it's too early to be alive -- but they don't seem to notice his vague attempts at communication. His mouth doesn't want to cooperate and his limbs feel heavy; after a moment he realizes how futile it is to try and talk at all and gives up, sinking below until someone calls his name incessantly, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine, Blaine.

He blinks awake, vision hazy but clear enough that he can see Marley smacking Sam on the back of the head, already snapping something Blaine can't understand at him. He lifts a hand in a placating gesture and realizes that it's shaking, setting it back by his knee before they can notice. "I'm fine," he assures them, but none of them are listening, Tina biting her lip and Sam arguing pointedly with Marley while some girl -- Penny, Penny, her name is Penny -- stands nearby, wringing her hands anxiously. "Guys," he says, and it's enough to shut them up, at least, before he adds in a tired slur, "I'm fine. Stop it."

Sitting up against the locker that he's leaning against makes the vertigo return full force, and one moment he's blinking in utter darkness, the next staring up dazedly at a ring of bright, bright lights.

He turns his head away from them and shuts his eyes. Someone knuckles his sternum -- hard -- and he grunts as he reaches up a hand to swat at them.

There are different voices now, but he doesn't recognize any of them. Sam, Tina, and Marley are gone, and a momentary spike of panic thrusts him back into full consciousness as he stares up at the bright lights and tries to understand anything.

"What's going on?" he demands, his voice thick to his own ears, indecipherable above the indeterminable chatter above him. Someone pauses to answer him, but the words are a long string amid the rest of the chaos and he can't understand them, either. The headache is blinding, terrible.

He doesn't drift into the darkness again, but he loses track of time, one moment in the back of a truck -- an ambulance, he reminds himself, it must be an ambulance, or else he really is being kidnapped and that's too chilling to consider -- before he's being carted down a hallway.

There are voices above and around him now, and all he wants is to sit up and snap at them to stop talking because all their efforts are making his headache near unbearable. Then another person -- a woman -- addresses him directly.

"Can you hear me?"

He grunts in acknowledgment. Talking seems useless.

"I need you to respond with words, okay?"

Another grunt. It's rude and he's been raised better, but he doesn't feel like talking. He's afraid that if he opens his mouth, all the spinning in his head will make him vomit. The last thing he wants is to vomit on himself or, God forbid, someone else.

"What's your name?"

"Blaine." He keeps the word crisp, clipped, but it still takes a long syllable to grate out.

"Do you know where you are?"

He takes a moment to look around and a slow, shallow breath. "Hospital," he rasps. His stomach sinks. "Why'm I here?" he asks.

"You passed out at school," the same woman explains, and he notices her for the first time to his left, long black hair tucked neatly over one shoulder, medical scrubs immaculate. "How are you feeling?"

"Hurts."

"What hurts?"

He makes a vague gesture at his head. His vision flickers as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

"Blaine? I need you to stay awake." She sounds almost apologetic, but he knows better. His blood chills at the memory; blood and pain and needles and noise and confusion and no one would tell him anything, no one would even stop to let him breathe because breathing hurt so much that he couldn't draw in any air, he was strangling on nothing and--

He draws in a slow, shivering breath. His chest aches with phantom pain and his mouth runs dry, but thankfully he finds his voice a little steadier as he says, "I'm awake."

"Good. I need you to answer a few more questions for me, okay?"

"Okay."

"What's your full name?"

That's easy. "Blaine Devon Anderson," he says.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"Where do you go to school?"

He draws a blank for a moment, Hawthorne already on his lips before he answers, "McKinley."

"Good." Then, appeased, she explains, "I'm Dr. Haley. Your friends contacted us because you had a seizure."

Seizure.

The word seems sinister even in the hush of Blaine's thoughts. He can barely form the words, struggling to speak at all as he asks softly, "What?"

Dr. Haley doesn't seem overly bothered by his distress, which seems wrong to him, terribly wrong, because he's never -- never -- had a seizure and it's no surprise that Tina and Sam and Marley were so anxious. He closes his eyes, already regretting leaving them alone, wanting to somehow help them even though he can't even help himself when at last Dr. Haley speaks. "Have you ever had a seizure before?"

Blaine shakes his head. Words are difficult, but silence is easy, and all he wants to do is sink into the blanket of consciousness again, leaving his achy body to cope with itself for a while. Surely it can manage as much.

"We'd like to do an MRI scan," Dr. Haley is saying. He doesn't hear her. He can't over the rattle of his own breath in his chest, his own terror overwhelming him momentarily as the weight of the word -- seizure -- sinks in his chest.

Am I okay?

It seems like such an absurd question. Of course he is. He has to be. He's been stressed, planning for Glee club, but it's nothing serious. It can't be serious.

He might have missed a meal here or there, might have pushed himself harder than he should have, but people overworked themselves all the time and they were fine. They weren't here, lying on a hospital bed with strangers around him. They were fine.

He was fine.

He has to be.

"We've already been in touch with your emergency contact," Dr. Haley points out, mercifully pulling him away from his frantic thoughts. He eyes her skeptically for a moment, recalling dazedly that he filled out those silly little blue cards at the beginning of the school year for precisely this purpose: contact in case of emergency. "Your parents were unavailable," she adds. The question in her voice is obvious and echoed almost immediately by his own.

What?

Panic threatens to overtake him at the thought that his parents aren't there (he just had a seizure and his parents aren't there) and he thinks about sitting up and demanding his release (they can't actually hold him against his will, after all, he is an adult) before slouching back against the pillow a little more.

No, they wouldn't be.

Blaine can't help it; he lets out a soft, rueful laugh as he explains, "They're in Chicago. For a . . . a convention." Tipping his head back a little so he can get a better look at his surroundings, he closes his eyes at a new wave of dizziness and breathes out slowly to control the nausea. He's aware that everything hurts a lot more than it did before, like he's gone on a hard run, or gone three days without sleep.

The latter seems more accurate as it tugs at him, threatening to pull him under completely. Even concentrating on their conversation is becoming increasingly difficult. He wonders if he'll even be allowed to sleep once she leaves. Probably not, he thinks, looking around and trying to take in the scene around him, a handful of other patients partitioned off and attended to by other nurses and doctors to varying degrees of discomfort.

Dr. Haley doesn't respond immediately, instead consulting a chart and asking another nurse if she can set him up with an IV. He flinches but doesn't speak, his fingers curling a little more around the bed sheets. You had a seizure. Refusal of treatment remains an option, but the hollow pit in his stomach tells him that he doesn't dare. He needs to know.

Dr. Haley tells him everything that they're planning -- they still need to get him registered and check out his medical history before they give him anything more than fluids -- but he can't focus on it. Exhaustion presses in on his chest until it's almost unbearable, his head throbbing with every beat of his heart, a soft groan of discomfort escaping him even as Dr. Haley offers an apologetic farewell and promise to return soon.

Closing his eyes to try and ease the pounding behind them, he asks the nurse that takes her place, "When is he coming?"

He can feel her gaze on him, curious. "Who?"

"My emergency contact," Blaine replies slowly. Now that he has his eyes shut, it's harder to work up the energy to open them again. The emergency room lights are bright. He prefers the quasi-darkness of his own head, aching though it may be, to the over-sharp edges of reality. It's almost possible to pretend that he isn't here at all, that it -- seizure -- didn't happen.

"Fifteen minutes," the nurse answers, drawing him back to the present and swabbing the back of his hand. He flinches, forcing himself to calm down. It's just a needle. It's nothing. "Take a deep breath," she suggests. "This only takes a moment." She has a nice voice, Blaine thinks, calm and uncomplicated. "We're waiting on Radiology; as soon as they're ready, we'll take you back for some scans." He hisses when the needle and catheter go in, relaxing once she finishes setting up the IV and tapes it to the back of his hand. "See? Easy."

"Easy," he grunts.

She smiles at him -- he doesn't need to look to know she's smiling -- and somehow even through his disgruntlement he manages a tiny smile. Niceness is contagious. He would know; the Glee club is always involved in some big project or another, and just being around people so passionate about something is enough to bring his mood up.

He loses track of time again as the nurse walks him through his medical history, aware that he's slurring his answers and unable to stop. She doesn't berate him and, following her lead, he doesn't make a greater effort, relieved to be left alone at last.

Drifting peacefully through a state of half-awareness, never fully away from the emergency room but not quite awake, either, he slips into a light sleep that seems to last a mere second before Burt's gruff voice is overhead, his weight settling into a nearby chair. They're in a room, alone. It seems strange to Blaine, the silence, after so much indistinguishable noise.

"You awake?" Burt asks.

Blaine lets out a low hum that might be affirmation. Talking is too much effort. Burt knows. He has to.

"I'll stay as long as you need me to," Burt says, reaching out to give his untethered hand a squeeze.

Blaine's heart tightens in his chest at the gesture, and he lets out another, softer hum as he turns his hand over and squeezes Burt's back lightly. "Thank you," he rasps, flexing his fingers a little when Burt releases them.

"Any time," is all Burt says.

Blaine wants to speak -- to ask him about his day, to apologize for the inconvenience of dragging him away from his work, to express his terror over the inexplicable -- but all he can focus on is sleep.

So he releases a soft sigh and he lets go, trusting Burt to field any unwanted visitors. As long as Burt is there, it can't be so bad.

He's fine.

He has to be.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine feels a little more clear-headed by the time the MRI is over.

The test itself doesn't take long. Compared to the hour-long wait before they take him back, it's brief, a mere fifteen minutes from start to finish. Every second seems elongated, however, due to the claustrophobic nature of the machine, making him feel tiny and cornered and compressed. As soon as the nurse leaves, he's afraid that he'll panic and try to escape before the scans are taken, but he manages to stay calm because he has to. If he doesn't, then they'll just have to take more scans, and he doesn't want to do it again, so he lies as still as he can and tries not to think about the throbbing pain in his skull.

It doesn't matter. All that matters is getting through the test so that they can confirm that everything's fine and he can go home and sleep for days. He's so tired that by the end of it, he can barely keep his eyes open, straining to answer the perfunctory questions that the nurse asks him before at last, mercifully, she gets him settled into a room.

It's a single, surprisingly. True to his word, Burt is with him, and another nurse -- he's looking track of names and faces but it doesn't seem to matter -- is there, too, until she's not and then it's just him and Burt and Blaine is so tired that even attempting a protest at Burt's presence is hard.

"You should go home," he rasps at last.

"I'm not going anywhere, kid," Burt replies, and Blaine doesn't know why he expected anything different but it still lifts some of the weight off his chest because Burt means it. Burt doesn't lie. Burt would never lie, but it still makes Blaine's heart ache because he wishes that his parents would expend the same effort, sometimes. He wishes that they would make that extra leap from being merely supportive to well and truly dedicated.

Still, he has Burt, and he has a bed and quiet and almost-darkness, and it's enough, it turns out, to let the world and its pains fade away for a time as sleep overtakes him.

* * *

It's Burt's voice that eventually pulls him back to reality.

"I'll be right back; I'm gonna go get a coffee," he says, knees cracking as he stands. Blaine makes a confirmatory sound, not bothering to open his eyes. He's still a little woozy from the anti-seizure medication; he knows that by the time he musters the energy to offer an encouraging smile, Burt will be gone. Confirming his suspicions, the door closes behind Burt, leaving Blaine alone with his thoughts.

Rubbing his cheek against the stiff fabric of his pillow, Blaine stills at a light knock on the door, eyes opening to slits to regard his newest guest.

"Kurt."

The word feels punched out of him as he struggles to sit up properly. Kurt is frozen for a moment, and then he's there, looping an arm around Blaine's back and helping him find a more comfortable position against the pillows.

"Don't hurt yourself," Kurt chides lightly, rubbing his arm with warm, dry fingers.

"What are you doing here?" Blaine asks. Kurt is supposed to be in New York. He can't be in Lima. He has a job -- two jobs, if a part-time internship counts -- and classes and a band, friends and an apartment and countless other things compelling him to stay. He can't abandon them. "Don't you have a gig tonight?" Blaine asks, growing horror settling in his chest as the realization sinks in. "Oh my God, Kurt."

Kurt doesn't even flinch. "My fiancé is in the hospital," he says firmly, cupping Blaine's face in both hands, "and in case you've forgotten over the past few weeks, that's you."

Expression softening, he leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead before resting his forehead against Blaine's. The tenderness of the gesture takes Blaine's breath away. Suddenly every protest that he wanted to make about Kurt's presence seems irrelevant. Kurt's there. Kurt's there. His eyelids slide shut of their own accord, his fingers reaching up to curl in Kurt's shirt sleeves because even if he shouldn't be there, even if he should be in New York, he missed Kurt. He missed Kurt so much. And having him there is worth every ounce of guilt and shame for being relieved.

"I'm here and I'm not leaving until you're okay," Kurt says, pulling away to look him in the eye. Even slightly blurry, he's still stunning. "And by okay, I mean dancing around in your bedroom listening to horrible 90s music okay."

"Backstreet Boys are classic," Blaine defends automatically, startling a laugh out of Kurt. The shadows around his eyes remain, though, and as he sinks into the newly vacated chair beside Blaine, sobriety settles over the room once more. "You didn't have to come," he murmurs, unable to help himself.

Kurt reaches over and laces their fingers together, giving Blaine's a firm squeeze. "Tell me you wouldn't have done the same," he says. There is no malice in his voice, but his tone makes the challenge clear.

Blaine doesn't respond. He doesn't want to think about what it would be like, to get a phone call from someone -- anyone -- telling him that Kurt was in the hospital. The mere notion that Kurt could get hurt makes his throat feel tight; he feels guilt settling heavily on his chest as he looks at Kurt, aware that the phantom pain that he feels is very real for Kurt.

All he can think to say is, "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Kurt replies, rubbing his thumb over Blaine's knuckles. "Isabelle understands. And there will be other gigs--"

"I didn't mean -- that," Blaine interrupts gently.

Kurt's brow furrows in confusion for a moment before realization dawns, his fingers tightening around Blaine's a little. "How are you feeling?" he asks, low, hushed.

"A little woozy," Blaine admits. It only seems fair, but he still hates the way that Kurt's lips purse at the corners the way that they do when he's holding back a frown. "But I'm better. I'm not as -- I'm steady." It feels silly to say, steady, like it's possible to be anything but. It's still reassuring to say the words aloud: he's still sane, still normal. Still in control.

The more that he thinks about it, the less panicked he feels. He had a seizure, but seizures aren't uncommon. Seizures don't necessarily mean bad things: they can just be bad experiences, isolated and terrifying but not harmful. He's under observation, but it's just a precaution. They don't know what caused the seizure yet, but that doesn't mean it's bad.

He's fine. If he still feels sick to his stomach, then it's because he's in a hospital, not because anything is really wrong.

Kurt watches him, waiting for him to speak. Clearing his throat, he tries to put voice to the things that he's feeling -- the confusion, the uncertainty, the fear -- and makes a noncommittal noise instead, reaching up to rub at his eyes with his free hand.

"Honestly? I just really want to go home," he says at last.

"How long do they want to keep you for?"

There's no judgment in Kurt's tone, which makes it easier for Blaine to admit, "I don't know. We're still waiting to hear back on the MRI results. If they don't see anything suspicious, then I'll be free to go once the observation period has ended. Until then. . . ." He shrugs a shoulder self-deprecatingly, accepting his helplessness in the situation. He can't change the scans any more than Kurt can, but he's never wanted test results faster in his life. The wait is agonizing.

"Well, maybe they'll let you off early for good behavior," Kurt bargains lightly, squeezing his hand again. Blaine smiles at the attempt at humor; they both know that he can't leave until they know what's wrong, but it's still a nice thought. It makes his heart ache to think about where they could be: together in New York with Kurt on stage at the Williamsburg Music Hall and Blaine in the audience, cheering him on. "I'll stay as long as you need me," Kurt says, drawing him away from his fantasy.

Though it's imperfect, reality still has Kurt, and Blaine can't help but be happy for that much. Nodding, filled with gratitude for Kurt's presence, he squeezes his hand back and says simply, "Thank you."

* * *

"How's he doing?"

Kurt looks up when his dad enters the room, a tired but relieved smile crossing his lips as Burt hands him a coffee before taking a seat in the chair across from him. Kurt wants to hug him, to collapse into his arms and let Burt hold up the world for a while, but he can't let go of Blaine's hand. He can't break that last tether to his own sanity because he doesn't know how he's supposed to hold himself together emotionally without someone else to be strong for. Even asleep, Blaine is his anchor, keeping him grounded in a turbulent world. He still half-expects Rachel or Elliot or Santana to walk through the door and ask him why he hasn't started dinner yet; it's only the warm pressure of Blaine's hand in his own that keeps him from getting up to check.

He feels off-center, caught in a storm, and the first sip of coffee is like peace, seeping into his soul and warming the parts of him that he hadn't realized had gone numb with fear and pain and exhaustion. He was tense the entire plane ride, tense in the airports, tense in the cab, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the follow up phone call to come. He was so terrified and so anxious for another message, but the realization that he's here, that his dad is there and Blaine is there and he has a cup of coffee, finally, makes the world seem right again.

Almost, he reminds himself, gently running his thumb over the back of Blaine's hand. Almost right.

"How long are they keeping him?" he asks instead. He can't answer on Blaine's behalf because the words he's fine are caught in his throat whenever he looks over and takes in the sight of Blaine strung up to hospital machines, his expression lax in sleep but his pallor still slightly off. He might keep the same warm smile on his face when he's awake, but asleep he looks vulnerable. Kurt wants to spirit him away from the hospital as soon as he can, but he knows better than to jeopardize Blaine's health by forcing the issue.

He needs to know. He needs to know.

He finishes half his coffee before he realizes that Burt hasn't spoken. There is a solemnity bearing down on his shoulders that makes Kurt still, his hand tensing around Blaine's as he sets the coffee delicately aside. "What's going on, Dad?" he asks, very, very quietly.

He remembers being eight-years-old and equally inquisitive as he stood in the hallway of stark white hospital with his hand tucked in his father's, his expression caught between distress and fear and a sort of detached wonder that anything could make Burt look so afraid.

He should have known, then, that things weren't right, that his mother should never have left them.

When his dad takes a pause before he answers, it's like Kurt's world collapses, his entire center of being shifting because it's not his mother's life at stake, it's not his father's, it's Blaine's.

"Look, Kurt," he begins, and Kurt remembers sitting at the kitchen table with his father across from him, far too serious, too grave, too sad for an eight-year-old to see, and he has to choke back the sudden rage that swells within him at the idea that Burt would withhold anything -- anything -- that might sugarcoat the truth.

He can't bear a harsh truth, but he can't accept a comforting lie, either.

"I know you don't like it when I tell you the full story right away, but some things are better to hear in person. This is one of them."

"Tell me," Kurt says. He doesn't snap, but it's a near thing.

Burt meets his gaze and there is nothing between them but silence and a few feet as he answers, "He had a seizure."

White noise.

It's the only thing that Kurt can process at first, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his stomach knotted, his heart racing in his chest. He summons a herculean amount of strength to say, "What?"

Calmingly, so inexplicably calmingly, Burt says, "These things can happen to anyone, it's not always related to a more serious problem--"

"I don't--" Kurt has to swallow thickly to keep his voice under control, because if it starts shuddering now then he'll start crying and he'll wake Blaine and he can't do that, he can't--"

He has to pull himself back, take a breath and squeeze Blaine's hand and remind himself that it's okay, before he can meet Burt's eyes again. "So how bad is it?" he asks. His voice sounds level to his own ears, but he knows that his hand isn't crushing Blaine's because Blaine is asleep. He can't wake Blaine.

"We don't know yet."

Four halting words and so many questions.

Kurt takes a breath and another sip of his coffee before he speaks again, needing to steady himself. "When will we?"

Calm, composed: "How much did he tell you?"

A bitter laugh tries to work its way out of Kurt's throat. Nothing. He suppresses it until the urge passes, only stuttering a little over the words. "Not much. He -- mostly said that he was under observation. He didn't mention. . . ." He trails off, reluctant to say give voice to it, as if he can somehow recreate the event if he does. Seizure.

Seizure.

Even the word has an arresting quality.

"I'm not surprised," Burt says. His hands are clasped in his lap and he looks anxious, so different from the relatively easy-going manner that he usually has. It disarms Kurt, making him vulnerable to the fear gnawing at him, but he still manages to pull himself together enough to listen to Burt's next words. "I don't want you to worry about this until we know more," he says firmly. "And I know that's hard -- hell, it's hard for me, too -- but if you look at it like it's the end of the world, then you'll only drive yourself crazy. One-time seizures happen. Sometimes . . . sometimes these things just happen."

Blaine makes a soft sound of discomfort before Kurt can reply, his face tensing as he whimpers and turns his cheek against the pillow. Rising from his chair, needing to be closer to him, Kurt sets his coffee on the chair and maneuvers himself onto the edge of the bed, letting Blaine rest his forehead against his thigh, features still scrunched in pain.

Burt is on his feet again and Kurt doesn't stop him when he leaves with a quiet promise to get a nurse, knowing how unreliable the call buttons are. He doesn't know what level of panic to feel in light of the new knowledge -- everything feels heightened, simultaneously greater and more fragile than before.

Still, as Blaine nuzzles at his thigh helplessly, desperately trying to alleviate some unspoken pain, he doesn't need to think it through before he lets his fingers curl against Blaine's head and rub the back of his neck soothingly. He knows the familiar tension in Blaine's shoulders that underlie his more insidious headaches, and he knows how to ease it. Not completely, perhaps, but enough, always enough, that they can weather the storm together.

When at last Blaine is quiet -- sleepy, drugged, and nuzzling Kurt's knee almost compulsively even before the nurse has left, just subtle, barely there motions of his head -- Kurt feels like he can breathe again because they'll get through it. No matter how bad it is -- no matter what it is -- they'll get through it.

The band doesn't matter. NYADA doesn't matter. None of it matters if it means knowing that Blaine is okay.

I have to call Rachel, he thinks, but he doesn't move. I have to email Isabelle. I have to take care of my classes. I have to apologize to Elliot and Dani and Santana.

He has to do so much, but nothing matters more to him than sitting on the tiny bed beside Blaine, trying desperately to hold them both together.

I have to keep him safe, he thinks, and it becomes a mantra, a rhythm as solid and sure as the blood pounding in his veins. I have to keep him safe. I have to keep him safe. I have to keep him safe.

At all costs.

By any means.


	7. Chapter 7

The night is endless in Kurt's mind.

He sits on the edge of Blaine's bed for hours, too cramped for comfort, cardings his fingers through Blaine's hair with his right hand and answering the seemingly endless texts from Rachel (who, graciously, agrees to pass the news along to Santana) with his left. He pulls up his email after a break in the conversation to see if there are any new work-related messages waiting for him. Of course, at nearly two in the morning, there aren't any, only a single message from Isabelle in response to his earlier horrified announcement:

I have to go. Blaine's in the hospital.

Take all the time you need. Message me when you can.

Kurt hesitates, considers sending a message before discarding the idea. Telling her about the seizure will only alarm her, too, and he doesn't want to panic people unduly. He needs to know more before he can say anything, so he holds his breath and closes out of the tab, sending Rachel a last text that is a simple yet firm, Go to bed, Rachel. I'll tell you more in the morning.

It's almost three AM when one of the nurses arrives to check on Blaine and Kurt sits up enough to ask, "Why haven't we heard anything yet?" His voice is thin, on the edge of panic, but it's hard to reel it back in once he's cast it out there. Surely they should have heard something by now; it's been hours, how long can it take to read an MRI scan?

"Kurt," his father warns, omnipresent and calm in his corner.

Kurt swallows, reigning in the rage that wants to burst out of him. It's impossible to keep from curling his fingers around the back of Blaine's neck protectively, but the nurse doesn't tell him to move. He's not sure that he could have obeyed; his stomach twists at the thought of being forced to leave Blaine's side when they still don't know anything.

To his surprise, the nurse doesn't tell him to be patient and accept that the doctors have many, many other duties to take care of. She says, "A doctor should be in shortly." Then she injects something into Blaine's IV line -- anti-seizure medication, Kurt presumes -- and departs after checking over the rest of his vitals.

Kurt feels cold and fiercely protective as he keeps one hand anchored to the back of Blaine's neck, unable to move.

Physically, Blaine looks fine -- exhausted and disheveled, certainly, but he doesn't look any different than he did three days ago on Skype -- but Kurt can feel the anxiety ratcheting up inside himself at the possibility that he isn't fine. He needs to know what caused the seizure -- he has so much research to do; he feels blind with panic and concern at his own lack of knowledge -- and he needs to know how to prevent it from ever happening again.

He won't let anyone or anything hurt Blaine. A choked off noise that might have been a scream or a sob or something in between threatens to rise from his throat as he swallows again, holding back the flood that wants to burst out of him.

Deep breaths. Even breaths. Everything will be okay in the end. If it isn't okay, then it isn't the end.

Twenty minutes later, a tall, white-haired man knocks twice on the door before entering the room.

And Kurt can't help himself, grip tightening around the back of Blaine's neck as he asks, "How is he? Is he going to be okay? What happened?"

"I would prefer to disclose that information while Mr. Anderson is awake," the doctor replies, holding out a hand for Burt to shake. "I'm Dr. Wilson. I specialize in neurology," he introduces, turning to Kurt and doing the same, a single firm shake and a cool blue-eyed stare. It sets Kurt's teeth on edge, but he keeps himself from saying anything more as Dr. Wilson does a cursory inventory of Blaine's chart and vitals before directing his attention to Kurt once more.

For one long moment, his steely gaze seems to weaken enough that Kurt can almost see the regret tinging his features, but his voice is level as he asks, "Can you wake him?"

Before Kurt can even think to rouse Blaine, he's already stirring, making a quiet sound of discomfort as he nuzzles his cheek against Kurt's thigh. "Honey?" Kurt asks, soft and soothing, trailing his fingers through Blaine's hair. "You need to wake up now, Blaine."

Blaine catches on faster than Kurt expects him to, blinking a few times before turning slowly so that he can see the other people in the room. He groans softly as he shifts upright against the bed, back resting against it before reaching up to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

"Wha's going on?" he rasps. Kurt loops an arm around his waist apologetically, rubbing his side and ignoring the warm flutter in his chest as Blaine rests his cheek against his shoulder, eyes shut.

"Mr. Anderson, I'm Dr. Wilson." The formal title, if nothing else, elicits a soft grunt of acknowledgement before Blaine opens his eyes and focuses on him. "I came here to discuss the results of your MRI." Kurt tightens his grip around Blaine involuntarily. "Mr. Anderson--"

"Blaine." Clearing his throat, Blaine sits up a little more and explains, "My name's Blaine."

Dr. Wilson doesn't bat an eyelash, standing near the foot of the bed and regarding him calmly. "Blaine. I don't mean to cause you more stress by interrupting your sleep, but I felt that it would be appropriate to tell you about the results of your MRI scan as soon as possible."

There is a moment when Kurt feels all of the tension bunch beneath Blaine's shoulders before it dissipates, his expression mirroring the neurologist's placidness as he licks his lips and says, "What did it show?"

For a moment, Kurt lives in blissful ignorance.

Then Dr. Wilson's announcement, clear and indisputable, disarms him completely.

"We found a mass."

* * *

There are too many voices speaking at once for Blaine to understand them. He's already heavy with sleep, his senses only awakening enough to register Kurt's fingers curled around his waist, his cheek resting against Kurt's shoulder where the muscles bunch and tremble. He wants to reach out and soothe them, but everything feels heavier than it should, his eyelids, his arms, and all he manages is a halfhearted pass with his thumb, brushing indiscriminately along Kurt's hip.

Shh, shh. It's okay.

It isn't, but it's nice to pretend that it is. If Kurt is afraid, then he has reason to be, too, and the message slowly seeps into his consciousness even as he struggles to understand the gravity of the situation.

"What does that mean?" he rasps above the cacophony of voices, whispers at the backs of his thoughts.

"It means you're sicker than you thought," Kurt-Puppet chimes in, fiddling with the blanket near his foot anxiously. Blaine opens his eyes slowly and Burt and the doctor are gone, replaced by puppet versions of themselves. "But don't worry; I have this amazing chicken soup recipe that'll fix you up in no time."

"That's very thoughtful of you. Thank you," Blaine murmurs. It seems strange to him that he's sick; he doesn't feel sick. Although he is very woozy. Maybe the cold medicine was even stronger than he remembered it being; or maybe he's just not sick in that way. Maybe it's a stomach bug. Except he doesn't feel nauseous; a little queasy, perhaps, but nothing alarming. A headache seems to be intensifying behind his eyes with every passing moment, deterring him from thinking about the matter too deeply.

"Anything for you," Kurt-Puppet says, preening under the attention. Burt-Puppet hasn't said much, and Blaine thinks that that should work him, but the puppet-doctor doesn't seem bothered and he thinks that maybe Kurt-Puppet's right. They'll go home and he'll sink into the warmth of his own bed and Kurt-Puppet will be there and everything will be fine.

It doesn't even seem real, the hospital, and he can almost see the edges of his room, the familiar sheets of his bed underneath his fingertips for a fraction of a second. It's so nice, so breathtakingly comforting after such a long, exhausting day, and he's willing to surrender himself to the feeling except--

Except that there's warmth under his cheek and it's Kurt, real-Kurt, not one of his pillows. As Blaine's thoughts refocus (hospital, bed, Kurt, doctor, scans, headache, seizure), his heart sinks.

"Honey?" Kurt asks, brushing a hand down his arm worriedly.

"I'm here," he says, and he casts the pleasant fantasy aside as he blinks and struggles to bring the doctor across the room into focus. He seems so far away, and he's so woozy that even keeping his eyes open makes his head spin, but he makes the effort because he has to know, it doesn't matter that it's late and he's exhausted and all he wants are to curl into Kurt's arms and sleep until the pain goes away.

"We need to do further tests to determine what the composition of the mass is," the doctor says, "but at this time, we suspect it is a brain tumor."

Brain tumor.

Blaine blinks once. Forces a ragged breath into his lungs. Pointedly does not throw up, despite the renewed efforts of his stomach to empty itself.

Brain tumor.

It doesn't matter that the doctor is still speaking, that Burt's voice is sharp, Kurt's thin but disbelieving. Blaine's blood is pounding in his ears so loud that he can't hear anything that they're saying, his voice a shaky whisper as he says, "I think I'm going to be sick."

There's a plastic dish under his nose and he heaves, vomiting until the pain in his chest is sharper than the fear, raw and cutting.

I have a brain tumor.

When he settles, sinking down until he can wrap his arms around Kurt's waist and press his cheek to his belly, he feels dull, scourged. There's no room in him left to fight the pronouncement. All he can do is listen as the doctor and a nurse -- alerted by the spike in Blaine's heart rate, apparently -- converse with Burt, Kurt quiet as a statue above him.

He's so glad for Burt's presence. He doesn't know how he would handle the news alone, and he doesn't know how he would keep a brave face in front of Kurt so that he wouldn't be rattled, but with Burt there he doesn't need to fight it. He doesn't need to pretend to be something that he isn't. He can be scared because Kurt is scared, too, and the dizzying press of his thoughts wants to pull him under even as he struggles for consciousness, for clarity.

Through the bone-deep numbness muffling his senses, it takes him a while to realize that Kurt's hand is rubbing his side slowly. His own breathing sounds ragged in the silence.

I have a brain tumor.

"Where do we go from here?" Kurt asks. His voice is steady, surprisingly so, and Blaine is doubly grateful for his presence. He doesn't know what he would do without Kurt to cling to; shake apart, perhaps, the tiny tremors still racking his frame even with his arms wrapped around Kurt's middle. If he doesn't move, if he clings to the raw reality of the present, then he might not lose control.

Might.

"We schedule a biopsy," the doctor responds, "to determine what kind of tumor it is."

Blaine's stomach tightens and he presses his face against Kurt's side, momentarily overcome with fear.

He'd been terrified to have eye surgery, even knowing that the likelihood that something would go wrong was only marginal. Corneal transplants were fairly routine. While there was a definite possibility that he could have been left with permanent blindness in his right eye, the odds had overwhelmingly been in his favor.

He isn't gambling an eye this time; he's gambling his functionality, his personality, his life.

He was afraid, once, that he would die. And in the cold, dark aftermath of that unforgettable night, filled with hushed silences and too many empty, reassuring smiles, he wouldn't have been adverse to the thought of a more palatable reprieve.

But this is different, knowing how much he has at stake.

So he clings and clings and clings and wills it all not to disappear.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you comfortable?"

"Mmhm." Blaine reclines slowly until his head touches the coolness of a pillow, groaning aloud in relief as his eyelids slide shut. "This is amazing," he gushes, voice tinged with a note of genuine awe as he rubs his cheek against the fabric. After hyper-clean hospital rooms and stiff, monotonic beds and gowns, it's a refreshing change of pace to wear a pair of Kurt's old pajamas and settle down on Kurt's own bed. Turning onto his side, he curls a hand into the pillowcase, the back of his right hand still lightly bruised from where the IV had been.

Even with his head throbbing and his anxiety hovering just in the tolerable range, he can't deny the comforts of being home, holding up his arm invitingly. Kurt presses a kiss to his temple instead, asking, "Let me shower first instead, okay?"

Blaine nods in acquiescence, the edges of sleep already teasing his senses. He pulls the sheets and covers up to his chin, relishing the simple warmth generated by his self-made cocoon and doing his best not to think about the uncertainty looming large in his future.

It seems surreal to him that, in a span of three days, he'd gone from worrying about how he was going to survive the remainder of his senior year -- or, indeed, even make it to Nationals -- to wondering if he would actually be present at his own wedding someday. Jumping to conclusions wouldn't solve anything -- nor would it do anything to help his stress levels -- but he couldn't deny the quiet possibility of catastrophe, lingering in his thoughts like a silent menace waiting to pounce.

It could be benign, he allows, listening to the shower spray behind the closed door and willing Kurt to rejoin him. It might be operable.

Still, exhausted and uneasy, he can't process the information properly, solely aware that if things don't work out -- if, indeed, an operation is out of the question or the tumor is cancerous -- then he might lose everything.

Focusing on the present offers a tiny measure of comfort. Kurt's room has always been a comforting space, decorated with stylish and incredibly Kurt paraphernalia scattered around the room. There's an entire shelf dedicated to old Vogue covers on his wall and half a dozen framed photographs speckled across the walls, capturing white and tan and blue in equal measure. Blaine loves how Kurt utilizes space, filling it entirely without actually covering every square inch. His presence alone could make a one-cot room feel homey, but the little touches -- scarcer now that Kurt's heart and home reside in New York -- are what Blaine loves most, what reminds him in a world of ever-shifting roles and responsibilities, certain things are always constant.

Even so, it's hard for him to upset Kurt's routine -- and his own -- in such a violent and unexpected manner. Kurt should be in New York, performing with his band and inviting Blaine to visit him that weekend (even though Blaine knows that he should resist because plane tickets are expensive and he'll be there for good soon -- albeit, never soon enough). Blaine should be working with the New Directions to finalize their set list so they can bring home a Nationals trophy. All is not as it should be and Blaine aches for the past -- longs for a sleepless night four days ago when his greatest concern was simply juggling his hectic, unbalanced life between Ohio and New York.

He curls into a tighter ball underneath the blankets and doesn't speak when Kurt finally emerges from the bathroom, humming under his breath. He dresses and applies a fresh layer of moisturizer -- Blaine's lips twitch in a smile in spite of himself as he peers through squinted eyes at Kurt as he freshens up his face, never really needing the products that he swears by -- before joining Blaine under the covers, flicking off the light as he does so.

Reaching up to twine a hand around Blaine's curls, Kurt's arm stretches between them, long and languid, stroking the back of Blaine's neck. Blaine tips his forehead forward until it rests upon Kurt's shoulder, inviting the touch, a far gentler contrast to the sterile jab of needles and the cool press of nurses' hands. He'd grown accustomed to neither over the twenty-four hour waiting period that they'd kept him at the hospital, craving freedom more and more with every passing hour. Counterintuitively, he felt less safe in the hospital, as though at any moment he might fall apart, his condition manifesting itself suddenly, alarmingly, and barreling over him, out of control.

At Kurt's house, in Kurt's arms, listening to the steady rhythm of Kurt's own measured breaths, he feels a measure of peace that he hasn't felt since before he collapsed in the McKinley hallway three days prior. He knows that Kurt can't fix everything, try though he might, but the shock and fear that plagued Blaine in the hospital ebbs in the sanctuary of Kurt's room.

He can't be cured with a loving touch alone, but he can find comfort from it.

If nothing else, the ring on Kurt's finger is a promise that slowly lulls Blaine into sleep, echoing the sentiment between them that goes unsaid:

I'm here. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.

* * *

The low rumble of thunder wakes Kurt from a light doze.

He shifts slowly in the bed and stills when he realizes that the warm, heavy weight on his chest doesn't match the cool, malleable surface of his boyfriend pillow, one hand grazing up along Blaine's back as his foggy mind pieces together the puzzle. It seems strange to think that underneath the familiar flop of curls atop Blaine's head rests a potentially life-threatening tumor; Kurt rubs the space just behind Blaine's ear, listening to the rain pelt the windows and trying not to think about the precariousness of their position. He wants to slip back into a state of bliss and listen to Blaine's breathing deepen until his own follows suit, to fall into dreams of New York and lifetimes together.

Blaine's head nudges his hand just so, encouraging it to keep rubbing idly, and Kurt obliges, distantly aware that he needs to call Isabelle and Rachel and probably Santana, too. Maybe Mercedes just to vent for a while, or Elliot. He's almost worked up the nerve to follow through on these plans -- to actually form coherent thoughts and speak to people -- when he realizes that his phone is half a world away in his pants pocket, folded delicately over the chair by his vanity.

At once, the motivation is sapped from him, and he wilts, sinking into Blaine's sleepy embrace instead as the thunder continues to rumble ominously outside.

It isn't until his eyelids are nearly heavy enough to shut that he hears it, a faint buzzing emanating from the very coat pocket that he'd been ignoring. Extracting himself from Blaine's hold is a delicate affair, but he manages to free himself from covers and all just as the phone starts buzzing a second time, fishing it out of the pocket and squinting at the screen. With a deep sigh -- he can't avoid it forever -- he darts across the floor into the hallway, easing the door shut carefully as he hits answer.

"What the hell, Kurt? I come home and Berry's frantic and tells me that you flew back to Ohio because your fiancé is in the hospital."

"He's not in the hospital anymore," Kurt answers wearily, feeling a thousand years old as he reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, "it's a long story."

A beat passes silently between them. At last, Santana says, "Oh my God, you're actually in Ohio."

Exasperated, Kurt sighs, leaning a shoulder against the door for support and responding, "Yes, Santana."

"Spill. Now."

Kurt paces the length of the hallway, worrying one nail in silent consideration, at last descending the stairs -- gratefully finding the living room unoccupied. "I can't come home yet," he says, sitting on the edge of the couch, feeling small and scared in the darkness. "I really, really can't come home yet." My fiancé might be dying. "Blaine's -- he's -- they found a tumor," he blurts out. His breath hitches against his will and he presses a hand to his mouth, trying to remember to breathe and not cry because he will not live it down if he cries in front of Santana.

"When's the surgery?" In its own way, Santana's briskness is almost comforting. It centers him, and he's able to draw in a steadying breath before he speaks again, reaching up to wipe at watery eyes.

"They, um -- they haven't scheduled one. First they need to confirm that it's benign and then that it hasn't spread before they can actually operate." If it's operable. If it hasn't spread. If it's not cancer. "He had a seizure, two days ago? God, I don't even know what day it is, I just--"

"Friday."

"Three days ago," Kurt clarifies. "He had a seizure on Wednesday." Struggling to put his own thoughts into words, Kurt waits for Santana to respond, at last prompting gently, "Santana?"

He doesn't know what he needs exactly, then, but he lets his fingers curl around the cold metal of his phone and tries to remember how to breathe as he paces, the weight of being alive bearing down on his shoulders.

"They're rarely cancerous."

"I'm sorry?" Kurt's mouth is dry and he wants a drink, a hard drink, but he doesn't dare navigate the stairs in the dark, too liable to step on the creakier ones and wake his dad and Carole. Besides, even legal, it still feels strange and somewhat taboo to break into his father's alcohol cabinet for a drink alone.

"Brain tumors. They're rarely cancerous," Santana repeats.

"What are you talking about?" Kurt asks, wondering if he's dreaming, if he never woke up and this imaginary phone call is merely a way to delay the inevitable conversation. He almost hangs up in the pause before Santana speaks again, half-crazed with sleeplessness and fear.

"Well, since I doubt you've even taken a piss since learning that your fiancé was in the hospital, I thought I'd look it up online," Santana explains.

Kurt doesn't know what emotion chokes out of him then: affront at Santana referring to his more private affairs or relief that Santana can refer to his more private affairs in lieu of the news. Either way, he laughs until he cries, reaching up to hold a hand under one eye and apologizing in tattered whispers over the phone as Santana says, "Shit. No. Hummel. Stop that. Stop it. No, no, no. C'mon, Kurt, breathe."

"Kurt?" Carole's voice startles him, and he whirls on his toe and nearly smacks right into his stepmom, who catches him by the upper arms before he can topple sideways. "Hey. Hey. What's--?"

"I'm sorry," he whispers, still swiping futilely at the tears leaking from his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Honey, come here," Carole entreats, folding him into her arms as he shakes with wordless sobs, Santana's voice chattering away, largely forgotten, near his ear. "It's okay. It's okay," she says, rubbing his back, broad, sweeping strokes that ground him. "It'll be okay."

He doesn't know how long they stand there, but his breath shudders back into him and he's able to straighten at last, patting artlessly at his cheeks before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Santana?"

A different voice, soft and tentative: "Kurt?"

"Rachel." He sniffs, letting his hand fall and shaking his head at Carole, a wordless denial. I'm okay, he tries to convey in a single watery smile, hugging his own elbow.

"Are you okay?"

A hiccup of a laugh escapes him, then, as he assures, "I'm the farthest thing from okay right now, Rach. What happened to Santana?"

"I think she needs a moment."

Kurt almost laughs again -- it's bitter and he suppresses it, but Santana's unflappability wavering makes the news hit hard. "Me, too," is all he manages. "Can I -- can I call you back later?" Hushed, secretive. Almost shameful.

"Of course. Any time." Then, sterner, she adds, "I mean that, Kurt. Any time."

"Thanks, Rach." He hangs up with barely a good-bye, drawing in a deep, fortifying breath before turning to face Carole again. "I didn't mean to wake you up," he says, feeling guiltily responsible.

"I'm a mom. It's what we do," Carole assures with a shrug. In that moment, she looks so tired to him, the smile on her face for him alone, and he lets himself be pulled into another hug before withdrawing.

"Thank you," he manages, pocketing his phone and dabbing at his eyes. He feels tired and wrung out by the brief encounter, transported from his own world into a sleepless nightmare. He should be in New York working hard to become the next editor at Vogue dot com and running gigs with his band and auditioning for roles that are both within his grasp and far out of his reach. Being home, being back in Ohio, in his childhood home, is a sobering reminder of his new reality. He's tempted to flee down the stairs and book the next flight to New York and escape back into his own world again.

But his gaze falls on the closed door at the end of the hallway and he can't ignore it, picking his way gently across the floor as Carole remains in her place for a long moment, watching him. He feels her echo his sigh when he finally steps inside and shuts the door behind him, leaning back against it for a long moment, staring at the misshapen lump underneath his covers, one arm wrapped around Kurt's pillow instinctively.

As Kurt tiptoes across the floor first to grab a tissue to dab his eyes and then to the bed itself, Blaine whimpers in his sleep, a barely there sound against the fabric under his cheek. Slipping exhausted underneath the covers again, Kurt scoots close to him and runs a comforting hand up his bare arm, stroking back down slowly and repeating the gesture until Blaine shuffles over to him and curls up against his chest. Draping his own arm along Blaine's back, Kurt closes his eyes and wills himself not to fall apart, to hold onto Blaine for as long as he can have him.

Fearlessly, Kurt thinks, remembering Blaine's proposal. And forever.

He doesn't know how to be fearless for Blaine, but he knows how to be there for him, and he's willing to bear the struggle with him as much as he can.

In sickness and in health, he thinks, the naked warmth of Blaine's hand a gentle contrast to the cool metal of the ring on his own finger, his idle thoughts turning to wedding plans and engagement rings and a lifetime with Blaine, a lifetime he may or may not have.

Tightening his grip around Blaine's waist, he sinks deeper under the covers, choosing to shelter with him for now and to face the world again tomorrow.

His last thought echoes through his mind as sleep finally pulls him under:

Till death do us part.

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Please let me know if there are any weird coding errors in the fic! I did my best to weed them out before publication, but some will inevitably slip through the cracks.


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